Aftershock
by benedicking
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's death, John Watson still struggles to cope.
1. Chapter 1

The alarm buzzes in John's ear and he turns and delicately slaps it. He sighs. He hears someone in the kitchen padding about, and nonchalantly yells "Sherlock?" It's pure habit. After it's out of his mouth he regrets it. He hears Mrs. Hudson sweetly say, "No dearie, just me. Care for a cup of tea?" He tells her thanks but no thanks, and sinks back into melancholy. He sighs. He's been doing that a lot lately. It's been three years, he's been sighing the whole time, taking lots of breaths in and out, making sure he's still alive.

_Keep your eyes on me._


	2. Chapter 2

John swallows, and swings his legs out of bed, grunting as his bad leg hits the floor. His limp has come back to him with a fury. He clutches at his cane and winces, making a concerted effort to walk out of him room. He doesn't make it very far, only to his usual spot in the living room. He hasn't moved a thing. Rather, he hasn't moved any of _his_things. The other day he finally gathered up enough gumption to flip through some of Sherlock's compositions, but it left him feeling empty and alone. He wraps his bathrobe around him and regrets refusing Mrs. Hudson's offer of tea. He checks his phone. It's a habit that squeezes his heart and makes him feeling dry and sickly. He falls into his chair and can't help but notice the empty chair in front of him. He didn't change a thing. The walls still have bullet holes in them and his violin still rests on the window sill. His head falls into his hands and he sits there, transfixed by grief. But then a sudden army of requests fills his brain: there's errands to run and people to fix and if he were anyone else, his grief would be far from his mind. If Sherlock were anyone else.

_Goodbye, John. _


	3. Chapter 3

He has a date tonight. He rolls his eyes at the thought, that this is how he spends the anniversary of Sherlock's death. Sherlock would absolutely abhor the idea; which is, in fact, the reason why John accepted her offer in the first place. He pulls an ironed oxford shirt and folded and pleated pants from his closet. Everything is completely organized. That's what his life is without Sherlock: organized. His life is specifically compartmentalized; everything falls into place simply and without question. There is no unexplained variable, no oddity that throws everything off. He hates it.

She said that she would pick the place for dinner. He disliked it, the surprise of a new venue. In three years, he had gone back to his old habits, his old ways, and had become viciously stuck. He shopped at all of the same places, ate all of the same food, and had become bland and boring. Sherlock would have hated him for it, and he knows it. Sometimes he goes to Mrs. Hudson and asks if she wants to do something, if she's ever bored, but she just clucks and sits him down and makes him a cup of tea, which always sooths his throat, but often his soul goes without healing. He checks his phone for messages and has one from her, telling him that she's waiting outside the flat for him. He hears a car horn beep from outside and rushes down the stairs, as fast as his cane will allow him to go—which isn't very fast.

_No one is that clever. _


	4. Chapter 4

John sat on his bed and took one big, long, sigh. The date was a disaster. The first place she took him was the place; the place where he had first ate with Sherlock and that pesky waiter put a candle on the table because it was "more romantic." He smiled slightly and felt his throat tighten. He must learn to control that. He had left his cane in the corner and run all over town with Sherlock. It was the first night he abandoned all the fear and pain and embraced a new life of hurt and anger and beauty. It reminded him too much of Sherlock. So of course he called the date off awkwardly and left straight away. He was wishing he hadn't. He was so alone. The apartment was too quiet, without Mrs. Hudson rumbling around downstairs. He put on a record of violin music, but it was empty and flat. He hated it. He decided to go to sleep, and made his way back to his room. He sat on the bed, staring at his phone. Suddenly, it lit up, with a number he never believed he'd see again. His mind was playing tricks on him. But he liked this trick.

_Meet me at the café._

_SH_

_Sherlock? Is this a trick? How can you _

_be doing this? Are you alive?_

_I said meet me at the café. _

_SH_

_And don't ask stupid questions._

_SH_


End file.
